


River of Stone

by lordnelson100



Series: Breviary: Short Tales [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aman (Tolkien), Angst and Feels, Gondor, Last one standing, M/M, Misty Mountains, Mortality, Ouch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordnelson100/pseuds/lordnelson100
Summary: “Do Dwarves sing?” asked Legolas. “Or is it like asking a crow to sing? He can please other crows, but not the rest of the world.” A Dwarf song heard in three different decades.





	River of Stone

_Third Age, the Great Years, December, 3018_

The long wilderness trek to the Misty Mountains would have been cheerless except for the young hobbits, who were irrepressible.

Whenever there was even the least chance for a song, they took it. Ridiculous hobbit songs, full of drinking and food and clever animals. Songs they had learned from Bilbo that turned the great profound poems of the Elder Days into surprisingly sound Common Tongue lyrics. They teased Boromir into singing of the White Tower and bright banners of Gondor in his pleasant baritone, and Aragorn into beautifully-delivered tales of the heirs of Elendil in the North. Gandalf sat puffing his pipe when they rested, and listened with enjoyment; but _he_ did not sing.

Legolas did not need much prompting to do so, as he sang anyway at the drop of a leaf (as Sam put it), about trees in the winter snow and trees dressed in autumn gold and trees covered in the white blossoms of spring, and the sweet, deep shade of summer.

“I almost feel like I could be sitting in a meadow at home in August, under one of the grand old beeches, it’s that lovely,” said Sam. “Instead of in this cold bare place.”

“Gimli, you should give us a song!” said Pippin one evening. As Gimli was on his knees starting a fire from damp kindling in a sharp east wind, the moment was not exactly propitious.

“Do Dwarves do so?” asked Legolas. He was on watch, leaning on his longbow and looking out across the stony plains, grey under the winter sky. “Or is it like asking a crow to sing? He can please other crows, but not the rest of the world.”

“Dwarves are quite musical,” said Frodo, quietly. There may have been a hint of a chiding in his tone; the thoughtful hobbit was the soul of courtesy, Legolas was learning, and disliked anything that tasted of raillery. “If you listened to my Uncle’s tale of the Quest, it all began with the whole company of Thorin and their music, singing in the twilight at Bag End, years ago. I always thought it so poetic that Thorin brought his harp with him on that journey.”

“The Dwarven traders always sing when they come marching through the Shire on the East-West road, too!” said Merry.

“Yes, I liked that one they do with the mountains in it,” said Pip.

Gimli had got steady flames going at last, and sat back on his feet with a look of satisfaction. He chucked a stray pinecone at Pippin. “ _All_ our songs have mountains in them, young Hobbit. You’ll have to be a bit more particular than that.”

Pippin thought: “It’s all about the stony river, and wandering.” He hummed a bit, for he had a good ear.

“Right,” said the Dwarf.

 

> Oh river of stone, deep under the mountains  
>  Oh river of sky, at the twilight’s fall  
>  Oh river so cold, that runs down from the mountains  
>  Carry me, carry me, back to your side.

_He has a lovely voice,_ Legolas thought with surprise. It was rich and carrying, slightly husky.

 

> Through the river of stone, down under the mountains,  
>  Through the dark silent mines, by a flickering light  
>  With my pick in my hand, I went delving and seeking,  
>  Dig my way, seek my way, back to your side.

“And there’s the digging: got to have a mine in there so you know it’s Dwarves,” said Merry, _sotto voce._

Gimli grinned at him and kept going.

 

> Under river of sky, by the long stone highway  
>  Through field and through forest, by sun and moon light  
>  With pack and with cloak, I’ll go traveling onwards  
>  Wandering, following, back to your side.
> 
> By the river so cold, by the deep lonely waters  
>  Through dim distant lands, by the setting sun’s light  
>  With heart and feet weary, I went hopelessly seeking  
>  Find my way, make my way, back to your side.

The last weak gleam of winter twilight went sinking down over the black horizon, and the wind picked up as if on cue. Wind-tossed strands of Gimli’s long red-brown hair clung to his face, lit by firelight, as he finished the song.

 

> In the river of stone, I’ll sleep under the mountains  
>  From the river of sky, my bones they will hide  
>  Oh the river so cold, still runs down from the mountains,  
>  Let your heart carry me, still at your side.

“Oh, that’s a sad one, that is,” said Sam.

“Sad and yet beautiful, like much that touches our hearts,” murmured Aragorn quietly.

“Thank you, Gimli,” said Frodo.

It had been a simple tune, with a rhythm fit for walking or working, and it stuck in Legolas’ head, for all it was very unfit to Elves’ taste in music. He thought of it again, many days later, during their dark and agonizing journey through Moria. _“River of stone, indeed. May we live to see the other side.”_

* * *

_Gondor, Third Age 3021_

At Midsummer, they held a party to celebrate a first successful year of the Elves’ project to bring the green woods of Ithilien back to life, jointly with the Dwarves’ milestone in repairing the stonework of Gondor. Men of the Tower Guard and from all the work crews were there, too: especially happy at the renewal of their land.

They met on the banks of the Anduin, a few miles from the city. Long wooden benches were set for eating and drinking and talking, under a great tent canopy of canvas striped with red and cream. Gold paper lanterns were hung from the poles. Wine and ale flowed. All the different Peoples brought their instruments and singers and music flowed, too.

Sometime in the evening, Legolas heard a familiar song taken up. It sounded quite different with fiddles to accompany it and a great crowd of Dwarves who sang in multipart harmony and stomped their feet in time. Much happier: a song of persistence.

> Under river of sky, by the long stone highway  
>  Through field and through forest, by sun and moon light  
>  With pack and with cloak, I’ll go travelling onwards  
>  Wandering, following, back to your side.

The Dwarves cheered when they noticed that Legolas was joining them in the song and gave him a great many claps on the back and pokes in the shoulder and slopped ale on him in the course of enthusiastic toasts. Their attempts to show friendly acceptance of he and Gimli’s companionship were about as subtle as a blacksmith’s hammer to the face.

He didn’t mind. They had survived the War. Together they were conquering the peace, making the things happen that they had first dreamed of in times of peril, and much that they had not then dreamed of. What could they not do with the years before them, at one another’s side?

* * *

_Aman, Fourth Age, 170_

They had always understood that their journey to Valinor gained them a beautiful respite; not an end to Gimli’s mortality. It had been a tremendous adventure.

Legolas had found at last the answers to the mysterious calling of the sea. Gimli had especially enjoyed meeting people out of legend who had created the great works of old; he’d had long conversations with they who helped build Nargothrond or craft mithril in Eregion. They’d met Galadriel once more on this side of the sea, and Gandalf and Elrond. Legolas found his mother again; his life took a lot of telling, and he got to introduce his friend.

But the years had passed swiftly. The end would come soon. Legolas sat in a great arched window, leaning back against the cool stone with Gimli in his arms. It looked out over the wide ocean. Sea birds skimmed low over the incoming waves, twittering. The waves roared.

“It comes to my mind,” said Gimli. “That I have travelled further in this world than any other of my kind who ever lived, perhaps. That seems a strange thing.”

“Dwarf of many journeys,” Legolas remembered.

“Aye. And now you must go on without me, brave lad.”

“You will be with me, still,” said he, since he wished to comfort Gimli.

Legolas knew that they two had had very good fortune; favor and dispensations that were rare indeed in this marred world, where many never found the mercy they cried out for. He did not like to complain and make moan, not when he had enjoyed so much good.

So he did not tell anyone that he was afraid of the road ahead: how long it was.

>   
>  By the river so cold, by the deep lonely waters  
>  Through dim distant lands, by the setting sun’s light  
>  With heart and feet weary, I went hopelessly seeking  
>  Find my way, make my way, back to your side.

>   
>  In the river of stone, I’ll sleep under the mountains  
>  From the river of sky, my bones they will hide  
>  Oh the river so cold, still runs down from the mountains,  
>  Let your heart carry me, still at your side.

**Author's Note:**

> #
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